Immortal boy! whose years scarce reached my own, And yet were filled with all the kinless grief Devolving on old age, without relief Of stagnant brain, of nerveless blood and bone -- At dusk, when wind-swept autumn woods are lone, I, who of Fortune's bounty am the thief, Gold-filled, I muse upon thy life, so brief, So passionate, and, envying thee, I moan. For dreaming thus, there comes a specter thought Which fastens on my soul and leaves it grey With fear. If Death, who found thy field so fraught With golden harvest, now to me should say "Enough, 'tis Autumn" -- God! no harvest yet Have I, and still my fields are green and wet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WEDDING BED IN MANGKUTANA by KAREN SWENSON SEA SLUMBER-SONG by RODEN BERKELEY WRIOTHESLEY NOEL POPPY: FANTASTIC EXTRAVAGANCE by FRANCIS THOMPSON ON KEAN'S HAMLET by WASHINGTON ALLSTON THE OLD FLUTE by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER ON GRACE CHURCH CORNER by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |